Brighter Discontent (Listening to: How Can It Be, Forever Thursday)

Rereading some of my old work (something I only do at those times when I seem brimful of emotion but unable to express it with words due to a lack of creative or poetic inspiration) I was forcibly reminded of a song by The Submarines called Brighter Discontent.

The song itself doesn't quite describe the same feeling, but there are snatches which are really dead-on. I can give some examples from the song but I think they will be more in context if you've read my writing first.

These were the days when she lay in silent repose in the corners of her white-walled haven. The days when she tugged the shades apart and threw open the windows, when she wore ball gowns she had no use for. These were the days she fit her feet into velvet pumps, when she rouged her cheeks and painted her lips. These were the days she stopped pretending not to care. Sometimes she’d play quiet love songs from years past on an old and wheedling phonograph, others the faint anthems of robins were all she needed to dull the sharp silence. In the evenings, sunlight would leak through the trees, drenching the wooden floors of her room. She’d lock the door; trace the golden baubles of light with her forefinger. On blank and snowy pages she would record pieces of her life. At times they took the form of meticulous figures, shaded into the perfection she had always lacked and riddled with her doubts and love. Most were sheets of innumerable ciphers, slanted and flowing in rivulets from the ink pen she handled as delicately as the stem of a rose. There were some hours when she’d simply leave the pages white, agreeing with her cautious consciousness that some moods were not meant to be described. Yet it was these pages she always returned to in her islands of calm, when she remembered the storms which at times afflicted her. It was at these pages she could stare for hours on end, discovering subtleties within herself that she hadn’t known existed. She would marvel at how many emotions these formless vessels could hold. She imagined them as invisible glass, brimming with substance-less liquid. These silver thoughts remained nameless to her and to the world, remained shadows on the borders of acknowledgment when she could not bring herself to admit them. Sometimes they took the form of faceless ghosts that bobbed and nodded at her until she forced herself to look away. She could neither escape nor define the sepia-toned whispers in the air which surrounded her then. Instead, her eyes nearly always found the naked windows framed with emerald leaves and pink bursting blooms. She would lightly finger the honey wood molding around the glass, unable to shake the tight feeling that she was trapped in a transparent vase of her own making, that she could at any moment become a ghost in her own world, indiscernible and thin as air.

And that's exactly what it was:
A Brighter Discontent. A breaking heart in an empty apartment, the loudest sound I never heard. And I will be fine if I don't look around me now too much for what's gone. If only I can wait here just a little while and let time pass in my room.

How Can It Be that These Things live in Me?